


In the secret parts of Fortune

by middlemarch



Category: GLOW (TV 2017)
Genre: Domestic, Double Entendre, F/M, Humor, Romance, also references to baseball, amusing myself, apologies to the memory of Satchell Paige, copious use of profanity, give the people what they want all right?, it's as vanilla as you make it, it's not lost upon me that higher rated fic gets more hits, to be expected
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:49:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27547861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: Bringing back a classic format, customized for GLOW: Five Times Something Sounded Like Porn But Wasn't...And One Time It Was.
Relationships: Sam Sylvia/Ruth Wilder
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

“Oh, that’s so fucking tight,” Sam muttered. He looked up at Ruth, the sunlight full in her face, showing the sheen of sweat on her upper lip, the gold in her chestnut hair. 

“Keep going,” she urged. 

“It’s never been like this before,” he said, feeling the tension in his arms, his lower back. Keeping himself steady.

“Never?” Ruth asked.

“No. Shit-- fuck, that’s wet!” he grunted. He closed his eyes for a long moment, knowing Ruth was watching him.

“Sam—”


	2. Chapter 2

….“Fine, Ruth. You were right, I need a real plumber,” Sam said. He’d spent enough time in the coffin-like space under the kitchen counter. “Turns out, I can’t fix this fucking sink. The gaskets are rusted straight through.”

“Carmen says she knows a guy—I got his number as a backup,” she said brightly. “I’ll call him and order a pizza.”


	3. Chapter 3

“You really want me to do this?” Ruth asked, on her knees before him, her face upturned like a flower. He could feel her hand on him like a fucking brand.

“Yeah,” Sam said. “I do, I trust you.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” she said. A warning. “I don’t have a lot of experience.”

“But I know you, Ruth. You’re the most fucking diligent person in the world, you probably did plenty of fucking research,” Sam said.

“I did talk to Jenny. I don’t want to just blow it,” she admitted. Of course. He rolled his eyes, gestured towards her.

“Come on,” he said.

“Spread your legs a little, it’ll be easier for me,” she said.


	4. Chapter 4

…“You satisfied?” Ruth asked. Sam examined her handiwork. The charcoal grey Italian wool suit pants, the nicest ones he he’d probably ever owned or ever would, were perfectly hemmed, the stiches nearly invisible. And she hadn’t stuck him once with the needle.


	5. Chapter 5

“Just like that?” Sam asked. Ruth, who always had so much to say, was quiet. Taking it all in.

“A little more to the right,” she said. She knew best how she wanted it. “Mmm, that’s better. But maybe, just move your hand--”

“I want to do this right, Ruth, but we don’t have a lot of time,” Sam said, keeping his movements delicate, light, trying to gauge her response. “Justine will be home soon. Any fucking minute.”

“So close, I think—ah! That’s it, Sam, that’s perfect,” Ruth let out a long, satisfied breath, reached her hands out to him. She was flushed and smiling. “Come here.”


	6. Chapter 6

…“She’ll be so surprised,” Ruth said. “It’s beautiful.”

“Yeah, I’ve never decorated for a holiday in my fucking life,” Sam said, looking at the Christmas tree strung with the multicolor lights Ruth had insisted on, the dark-haired angel he’d chosen at the top, the fir garland on the mantle, coiled around the banister. There were even stockings hanging from improvised hooks, the cheery red velveteen offset by their names embroidered in a heavy Gothic font.


	7. Chapter 7

“Fuck, Ruth, tell me,” Sam said, knowing he was being selfish. Unable to help himself.

“It’s hard, Sam,” she said, almost whining. She was exhausted, they both were, but he couldn’t, wouldn’t stop. He was so close…

“Talk to me,” he said. Her gaze was abstracted, her blue eyes shadowed, then closed. What was she imagining? Who? He was suddenly, impossibly jealous. Desperate. “I need to hear you say it.”

“You’re…overwhelming. But I want more from you. From here,” she said, putting her hand over his heart. “I want to feel you, just you, Sam…”


	8. Chapter 8

…“That scene does work better once I cut the guy’s monologue and let them move around each other. The lighting’s going to be fucking murder. Who picks dusk as a time to shoot in the desert? But it’s the only time that works for the plot,” Sam said as Ruth sipped her umpteenth cup of coffee. His was mostly sugar at this point, but he drank it down to the dregs.

“It’ll have to be one shot. You won’t be able to get the same light twice,” Ruth agreed. She was far less annoying editing his screenplay than he’d expected. He said as much in his acceptance speech at Sundance.


	9. Chapter 9

“That’s one hell of a bush you got there, Ruth,” Sam remarked. Ruth made a face, put her hands on her hips like it that was going to distract him instead of focusing his attention. 

“Sam! You don’t have to be—”

“So fucking observant? It’s hard to miss,” he said, letting the words sound as filthy as possible. Ruth wasn’t a prude, but it still made her blush. Everywhere. 

“It’s the way nature intended,” she said.

“I’m not complaining,” he said. He leaned towards her and inhaled the intoxicating sweet fragrance. He was greedy, he wanted to touch, to stroke and smell the scent on his fingers. Taste it. “Fuck, that’s delicious.”

“Be gentle,” she said. But she didn’t pull away.


	10. Chapter 10

…“We’ll have to water it in well, but I think it’ll take,” Ruth said, surveying the gardenia bush planted next to her front door. Sam knew he stank to high heaven, but it was an honest day’s work and Ruth had a smear of dirt on her cheek that reminded him of the earth on the gardenia’s white petals. “You can’t grow these outside in Omaha. Weather’s too harsh.”

“Not here,” Sam said. “But it’s time for that drink you promised me. I can’t fucking believe I agreed to be paid in fucking iced tea and not bourbon. Goddamn sobriety.”


	11. Chapter 11

Recalling, in every possible detail, the 1948 World Series, even accounting for Satchel Paige’s time on the mound and Warren Spahn’s sacrifice fly, just wasn’t cutting it. Ruth felt too good and the sounds she was making…

“You keep that up—”

“Is that an instruction or a warning?” she asked, leaning forward to kiss the side of his neck, letting him hear her panting in his ear. He’d thought he’d known her well, better than anyone probably, but alone this way, in his bed or hers, on the kitchen table, he was discovering a new Ruth. He’d fucked a lot of women, made love to fewer of them, but there had never been one who trusted him the way she did. Never one he trusted in return.

“I don’t want this to end too soon,” he said, his hands at her waist, feeling the sweet curve, the flare of her hips, the roundness of her ass against his thighs.

“Why? Aren’t we going to do it again? And again?” she asked, matching her movements to the words, fucking herself on his cock.

“Christ on the fucking Cross, Ruth, yes,” he ground out. She arched her back like a fucking goddess and he went even deeper.

“Then you don’t have to worry. Or hold back,” she said, giving him an open-mouthed kiss, her hand moving to the overlong hair at the nape of his neck, tugging a little to get him to look in her eyes. He’d never had a woman give him a look of such carnal delight, had never been able to see how he was cherished. They didn’t use endearments, but her expression was one and so were her hands, her slick pussy and her soft, hot mouth. Her voice when she cried out his name and when she was wordless, gasping. “It’s okay, Sam. Come for me.”

Afterwards, he told himself it was the dirty little hip-swivel she did as she said his name that was, well, not fucking to blame, but responsible. What could Satchel Paige ever have done to compete with that? When he told her as much, she laughed, a low, throaty sound he swallowed before she was done. He wasn’t done, far from it.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Shakespeare, which frankly, I think he'd be down with.
> 
> Of note, I particularly made an effort not to use eating or wrestling as the "other" meaning, as they are gimmes.
> 
> If Stacey Abrams can write romance novels, I can do this :)


End file.
